


silk and steel

by Shewolf_of_highgarden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aegon may or may not be a pretender, Arya spends the war in Braavos, F/M, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Underage, Relationship of Convenience, by underage i mean 17 for Arya, most characters make an appearance - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26990149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shewolf_of_highgarden/pseuds/Shewolf_of_highgarden
Summary: “You are going to the Black Pearl, child.”“With a new face?”“No, girl, no more faces for you. You took a life that was not yours to take. You have been unable to let go of Arya Stark.”“No, I haven’t! I’m No One, I swear. I can serve!”“Serve you will, just not here. You will serve the Many-Faced God while in the service of Bellegere Otherys.”“Bu-”“I will be clear with you. Either you go to Bellegere Otherys or we will give you the gift. Do you wish for mercy, child?”“…No.”
Relationships: Arianne Martell & Arya Stark, Arianne Martell/Aegon VI Targaryen, Arya Stark/Aegon VI Targaryen, Bellegere Otherys (courtesan) & Arya Stark, Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 14
Kudos: 65





	silk and steel

**I**

“You are going to the Black Pearl, child.”

“With a new face?”

“No, girl, no more faces for you. You took a life that was not yours to take. You have been unable to let go of Arya Stark.”

“No, I haven’t! I’m No One, I swear. I can serve!”

“Serve you will, just not here. You will serve the Many-Faced God while in the service of Bellegere Otherys.”

“Bu-”

“I will be clear with you. Either you go to the Black Pearl or we will give you the gift. Do you wish for mercy, child?”

“…No.”

**II**

Bellegre Otherys’ villa is nothing like the House of Black and White. Actually, the villa is nothing like Arya has ever seen before.

Rich colored rugs cover the smooth stone floors, paintings of women and men in various stages of undress cover the walls along with painting of the sea, and small statues litter the grand room she is standing. Bellegere Otherys sits – _lounges –_ before her on a silk fainting couch. She looks like a lazy cat in the sunlight, like the ones that were easy to catch when Syrio Forrel had the daughter of the Hand catching cats, but her eyes are different. They are deep indigo, similar to the color of a plum, and they watch Arya intently. Her body language suggests she barely cares that Arya stands before her, but her eyes show that an assessment is taking place. Or, Arya supposes, her assessment had never stopped.

When Arya had first been brought to Bellegere, the courtesan had met her outside of her villa. She had circled Arya, lifting a strand of her hair, pinching a skinny arm, avoiding Arya’s swatting hands.

“She will do,’ the woman said to the man waiting in the little boat that had taken Arya to the villa before leading her inside. The villa was more opulent than anything Arya had ever seen. Even the court at King’s Landing paled in comparison to the plush carpeting and little treasures that filled the Black Pearl’s home.

She remembers Bellegere from when a girl called Cat of the Canals sold oysters without hot sauce, but that does not mean she cares for her. The villa is gorgeous, but while Arya is itching to explore it, she should be back at the House of Black and White or selling Oysters, not standing here. She should be wearing her black and white acolyte robe and dark grey shift dress, not standing here the dark dress that common Bravosi girls wore. 

“What is your name, girl?”

What name is she supposed to give?

_Arya?_

_Arry?_

_Nan?_

_Weasel?_

_Squab?_

_Cat?_

“Arya.” She replies. What does it matter if she tells Bellegre her real name? All this way across the Narrow Sea who is to care who she is? Who even remembers that the old Lord Stark had a second daughter? A little girl who always had dirt on her nose and mischief on her mind?

“Arya,’ Bellegere says, as if tasting it, ‘hmm…a bit plain, we will have to choose a new one for you. How old are you?”

“Ten and two.” Arya lies. She is still bristling over the comment about her name. It is an old name, a proud one. Arya Flint married the Wondering Wolf and the Mountain clans joined the North.

“Ten and two,’ the Black Pearl is apparently a parrot that looks like a cat and who calls herself a courtesan, ‘The one who told me of you said that you are high born. I have some royal blood myself.”

“Really?” Arya asks, her curiosity beating out her aggravation of being here.

“Oh, yes. The original Bellegre Otherys was a lover of Aegon the Unworthy. She was royalty herself, you know, a pirate queen.”

“A pirate queen?” Arya asks, eyes widening. She cannot imagine the woman before her as a pirate. She cannot see on her a ship with some name like “squab” or “salty”.

“Aye. Bellegere had a husband in every port in the world and that Aegon was one of many. She was a famous smuggler known for doing away with anything she pleased, especially men’s hearts.”

Arya wrinkles her nose at that. It sounded stupid, like something Sansa and Jeyne Poole would sigh over in the sewing room. Arya does not care about taking men’s hearts. She would rather have sword fights and find treasure and sail west. The only men Pirate Queen Arya would need were the ones who could tie ropes or ransom high borns or take gold. Or mayhap her ship shall only be women. She could invite Merry and her girls and they could sail anywhere they wanted doing whatever they pleased. 

Bellegere smiles at Arya’s expression and beckons her closer. Arya shuffles closer as Bellegere pulls herself up into a sitting position. Once Arya is closer Bellegere leans close as if to tell Arya a secret she does not want the servant near the door to hear.

“She stole their hearts and stole their gold. The hearts of men are fickle, their words are wind, sweet Arya, but when handled well gold is forever.” She says, giving Arya a tap on the nose on the last word.

Arya jerks back, rubbing at her nose and sending a glare towards the woman, Bellegere only smiles at her. She is surprised. She had always been told about true love. All stories had men riding for the love of a fair maiden. When he finally got her, they spent forever after together. Sansa would be able to list all of the songs that ended this way. In real life Mother and Father had loved each other. Father had never wavered in his love for her and Mother had never wavered in her love for him. Love was supposed to last, everyone knew that. Ask Sansa.

“I don’t care about gold,’ Arya informs Bellegere, ‘I want to be a faceless man.”

“I have heard. They have sent you to me in order to serve.”

Arya simply raises a brow at the woman. How is taking gold from men serving the Many Face God?

“There is more than one way to serve. Valar Dohaeris.”

“Valar morghulis.”

“Just so.”

**III**

Once upon a time a grey little mouse called Nan served as a cupbearer to a Leech Lord in a haunted castle in a land all the way across the narrow sea. Once upon a different time in a land on this side of the Narrow Sea a girl called No One served wine at the House of Black and White. The acolyte spent good portions of her time holding a jug of wine, waiting to be summoned to someone’s side in order to serve them. Valar dohaeris. Now Mercedene, the newest and lone apprentice of the Black Pearl, serves wine for her mistress and a man who is perhaps the most boring man in existence.

She stands in the background silently, watching as Bellegere entertains some man from the Iron Bank. He is a portly man who looks frighteningly dull and has not stopped talking about himself since Mercy and Bellerge entered his villa at least a hundred years ago. The villa itself is nice, though, certainly not as nice as Bellegre’s. How could it be though? The Sea Lord himself gave Bellegere her villa and it had been furnished by princes and merchants and other wealthy lovers. Considering Mercy knows girls who have spent most of the past years living in the House of Black and White, the forest across the sea, and in servant’s quarters this place might as well be one of the plushest palaces in the world.

The walls of the parlor are draped in burnt orange silk, questionably matched with bright yellow furniture. It must be to show off his wealth. The lighter the color the harder it is to remove stains. Once upon a time a girl called Arya Stark of Winterfell only wore gowns of darker colors because she could never keep them clean. Her elder sister’s gowns were made of light blues and greys and purples and all marveled at how finely she dressed. Meanwhile Arya Horseface always wore dark greens and dark blues. Their lady Mother said that if Arya Horseface ever learned to keep her gowns clean, she would be given lighter colors to wear. Arya Horseface told her mother that she did not care what colors her gowns were, she would rather play with her brothers and the other children of the keep than wear light colored gowns. And so, Arya Horseface only wore dark gowns until she turned to dust on the streets of King’s Landing.

The grey mouse of Harrenhal wore a dark grey shift dress with a bright pink flayed man sewn onto the chest. She had been made to wash the dress at least once a moon and them more than once when she was serving the Leech Lord as a cupbearer because he would complain of the smell. No matter how much the little mouse scrubbed and pounded the dress against the stone, the dress retained its color and almost always looked dirty. The tunic and breeches the little mouse had snatched before escaping had been in the same shade of mouse grey. The lightest clothing, the little mouse wore before leaving Westeros was the dark green tunic that the Lady Smallwood have given the mouse who had turned into Arya Stark.

The girl with no name at the House of Black and White had dressed like everyone else. Everyone at the House of Black and White wore robes of black and white. She had been forced to leave those behind the morning the Kindly Man had forced her to leave. The girl tried to hide with Umma and cook the morning meal like other mornings, but he had sent Waif after her. The girl with no name tried everything. She bartered and threatened and tried to beg and he repeated her options once more. She could serve by becoming an apprentice to the Black Pearl or she could be given the gift of mercy. The girl with no name had fought too hard to survive to simply be given the gift of mercy. That was the morning No One died in her too big black and white cowl, right standing in the middle of a villa nicer than the one that Mercy stands in now. 

When the girl with no name died, Mercedene took her first breathes. Mercedene wore neither black nor white nor dark gowns of wool. Her gowns are made of summer silk and myrish lace and are soft colors. It’s a sharp difference to the typical dark colored clothing that is favored in Braavos. In a far off land called Westeros high borns favored the expensive light fabrics and many of the smallfolk in the South seemed to favor brighter colors compared to their Northern counterparts.

A girl once called Horse-face remembers a Dornishman’s yellow cloak.

Her pale purple gown stands out against the burnt orange she is standing in front of now.

Did this man find the color comforting or something?

Mercy is contemplating chucking the wine onto one of the silk hangings if only to look at a different color when Bellegere signals to her. Mercy knows how to do this. Pouring wine is simple, all you have to do is not spill it. It is the boredom of it that is the hard part. The tedium of watching for the right moment to bring the jug over. Like the Faceless Men motioned to a girl with no name, Bellegere motions to Mercy. The Leech Lord wanted a little grey mouse to know when it was time. She would have to stand behind him and try to figure out when he wanted more of it or be faced with no supper or a threat or a slap to the face.

The portly man glances at Mercy as she fills his goblet, a cup as gaudy and ugly as the rest of the chamber. When his eye catches hers, Mercy keeps the gaze. Why should she look away? She is not an acolyte or a servant or a shy young maiden. She is Mercedene, the lone apprentice of the Black Pearl. She holds the eye contact because why wouldn’t she? Of course, she is curious about this man who Bellegre has deemed worthier than the others who sent for her this night. This man who sent one of his men with a carved spice-wood chest containing a ruby the size of Mercy’s fist. This man does not look particularly special and from what Mercy has heard of the conversation, he is not particularly gifted with his mind either. He is nothing special. He is just a bridge, not a destination. That is what Bellegere called him.

His pale green eyes leave hers and dips to her chest. There is nothing to see there, really. Her tits are as large as his appeal. The cut of her gown is not as revealing as Bellegre’s. She is still flat of chest and as skinny as the needle that waits for a girl called Little Sister under rocks on a dock on the other side of the city. Still the man attempts to see _something._ What he is looking for she does not know, but she would like it very much if he would stop.

“Is she a new one, sweetling?” the man asks Bellegere, as if Mercy does not stand before him with a jug in her hands. He says it as if she has not been a splash of purple in front of an ugly draping of silk for years and years.

“Just so. This is my Mercedene, she will be with me for a time.” Bellegre replies, not even glancing at her.

Mercy feels her mouth twist and eyes narrow as she tries not to stomp back to her place against the ugly silk on the walls. That is the worst part of being a cupbearer, the really infuriating part, you are nothing but walking furniture. You stand there only to serve wine and sometimes someone will look at you and say something and other times they will look right through you. They want the wine, not where the wine comes from.

“She is young yet,’ Bellegre is saying, ‘She is young and inexperienced, it will be some time before she accepts any invitations.”

“I’ve a boy about her age. When he is older, if she is anything like you, mayhap we will call upon her.”

“If he is as handsome as you, I am sure that she will gladly accept the invitation.”

“She will not.” Mercy growls out, her grasp on the cool clay wine jug turning white-knuckled.

She will not entertain this stupid man’s son. She has no wish to sit there while he drones on and on and on and on about nothing save for himself. She most certainly will not sit there while he openly ogles her and clumsily kisses her and with the next breath speak of his wife and children. She does not want to feign interest in his stupid thoughts. No amount gold in the world could make her want to sit there and listen to him go on about how he is sure the Dragon Queen will come to the Iron Bank soon.

 _Now, if he had Walder Frey’s head_ …a ghost named Arya Stark whispers in Mercy’s head.

“What did you say, girl?” the man said, his face turning red. Mercy thinks he looks like a rather ugly tomato.

“I said I don’t want to entertain your stupid son in your stupid ugly rooms.” Mercy says, slamming the jug on the table beside her, splashes of red fall onto the dark wood.

“She means no offense, my love. She is still learning. Here, drink” Bellegre says, holding a goblet to the man’s mouth.

He takes a sip, but his eyes remain on Mercy. Those stupid pale green eyes. He has spite in them, but she once knew a girl who stared down a woman with poisoned emeralds for eyes. She once stared down a boy who was a monster with eyes as green as summer grass where snakes hid. She does not fear this man. Fierce as a wolverine.

Bellegre sends her a glare, but stays at the man’s side. She coos at him and asks for forgiveness for Mercy, as if Mercy wants forgiveness. She continues to hold the goblet to his lips. He loses his patience at the third sip and snatches the goblet from her roughly.

“You need to teach that little beast manners,” the man huffs out, still unsatisfied. 

“She has spent a long time on the street and is skittish. Have some pity for her.”

“Had a hard life, girl?’ the man says to Mercy, there is a mean glint in his eye, ‘Should I help to teach you manners?”

“I do not need help training my girls.” Bellegre says firmly, the cooing and cajoling gone. Her voice is still lyrical, but there is a hardness that had not been there before.

“Come here, girl,’ the man says, laboriously standing up and motioning to Arya, ‘Apologize and I will forgive you.”

“No.” Mercy says, willing herself not to back into the wall behind her. 

_Fear cuts deeper than swords_

A girl named No One killed Raff the Sweetling.

_I am a wolf and he is a sheep and wolves eat sheep_

A girl named Cat of the Canals killed the Night’s Watch Deserter.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords_

A girl called Arya Stark left Sandor Clegane for dead.

_Calm as still water_

She could survive this man.

Once upon a time in the deep dark woods in a land far away, a brother of the Nights Watch once took a switch to a boy named Arry’s legs for fighting with other boys. The little grey mouse was beaten regularly at Harrenhal for every mistake and sometimes for no real reason at all. A girl with no name played the lying game at the House of Black and White where sharp slaps were the punishment for failure. What could this man do to her that had not already been done? 

The man takes a step towards her and his face is getting even redder. Mercy is unsure whether this change is due to the wine or the anger or both, but the tomato look is only growing greater. When he takes another step, he stumbles a bit and Arya can see the gleam of sweat on his brow in the candlelight. He is sweating heavily for a man who was just sitting down. She has never seen someone sweat so in anger.

He was a breath away from her, when he falls on to his face, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Mercy stares at the body in front of her. The man jerks once, then twice, and then finally he lets out a ragged breath before stops moving completely, his pale eyes staring unseeingly at Mercy. Mercy stares at the man before looking up at Bellegre, who still sat on the silk couch. She looks more annoyed than alarmed.

“Valar morghulis” a voice says from the doorway. Mercy spins to see one of the man’s servants standing there, his face blank as if seeing this dead man was not a shock. Mercy tries to study the man closely, trying to see if she could see the face underneath. Mayhap the girl with no name had known him before she had drowned in the canals.

“Valar dohaeris” Bellegre replies, rising from where she sits.

“Come along, Mercedene, this one has it from here.”

Oh.

Mercy looks at the dead man.

She looks at Bellegre.

She looks at the quiet servant.

She looks at the jug of wine.

 _Oh_.

She sees now.

**IV**

“You poisoned him.” Mercy accuses as she takes off Bellegre’s jewelry, one ring at a time.

“ _We_ poisoned him.” The courtesan corrects, watching as Arya puts the jewels in a carved jewelry box.

“Why?”

“Because we were told to.”

“Why?”

“Does it truly matter? Did you want to entertain his son?”

“No.” Mercy says, but a ghost in her head still wants an answer.

Days later when Mercy is searching for some bauble that Bellegre wants she comes across the ruby the man had sent to Bellegere as an ivitation. The round cut of it and the color of it reminds her of the man’s head. It is dark enough to remind her of the blood he’d coughed up. Blood as red as what spewed from a stable boy that had tried to grab Arya Horseface. Men bleed the same. Whether they are Westorsi or Bravoosi it is all the same.

Mercy holds back a shudder before finding what she needs.




“Your pronunciation is all wrong,” Bellegre says from her end of the little boat.

Mercy groans and shifts on the cushion she is sitting on. They have been at it forever. Winter has come and gone and come again while they have been in this stupid boat. Dragons have returned with the Children riding them since Bellegre has made Mercy recite poetry. She is convinced that Bellegre is trying to make her throw herself overboard. Maybe the House of Black and White have decided that she is not useful enough and is trying to kill her, they want her to do it herself. Lazy fucks, the lot of them. But mayhap they were clever ones. At this rate she will jump overboard and swim to Meereen or Pentos. Anything is better than this.

“Why does it matter?’ Mercy does not whine, ‘I thought all I had to do was entertain.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“I don’t know. I’ll tell them a joke or something.”

Bellegre snorts at that.

“If a man wants a fool, he will hire one. He does not hire you to be a jester. Besides no one would hire you to speak with that accent of yours.”

“Then what does he hire me to do?”

“He hires you to make him feel important. He hires you in order to make him forget about his doughty little wife and bratty children. He hires you to make him feel special.”

“What does that have to do with poetry?”

“Poetry,’ Bellegre says with a dramatic flick of her wrist, ‘is what separates us from common whores. Anyone with a whole can open their legs, not everyone can get a man’s attention and keep it.”

“Aren’t you a whore? Just a fancy one.” Mercy asks.

Bellegre reaches across to where Mercy sits, giving her cheeks a swift slap, “I am no whore.”

“But men pay you and then you lay with them.”

“A man gives a whore coin, ruts with her, and leaves. A man gives me servants and jewels and villas, I sleep with him, and he always comes back.”

That sounds an awful like a whore to Mercy. Once upon a time in a land far away Arya Horseface went with a bastard boy to place when girls rang men’s bells for coin. Once upon a time Cat of the Canals made friends with a woman named Merry and the girls she watched over. Lana could do more than spread her legs and Yana could tell your future with only a drop of blood. She does not see the difference between the women of long ago and the one lounging before her.

Instead she reaches over the edge of the boat to splash in the water of the canal. It is cool against her sun-warmed skin and she can watch little fish scatter at the movement of the water. She likes the weather in Bravos. It is not as cool as the North, but it is cooler than King’s Landing. Most days are sunny, but thanks to the close buildings and multiple ally-ways there is always some shade to hide in.

“Again,’ Bellegre says, kicking at Arya gently with her silk slippers.

Arya lets out a deep sigh. She does not feel like reciting poetry. She feels like walking around Raggedy Man’s harbor or going for a swim.

“We will get your energy up, then. Stand up.”

“In the gondola?” Mercy asks, perplexed.

“Where else, girl? Come, I have a challenge for you.”

“A challenge?”

“Yes, now stand.”

Mercy is tempted to stay splashing in the water, but the thought of a challenge is all too tempting. She has never been able to resist competition.

She rises as quickly as she dares. The gondola that the Black Pear rides in is very fine with plush cushions to sit on and a cover for shade, but it narrow. Any great amount of movement rocks it so much that one fears that they will fall out. Mercy thinks that would be a rather funny sight. She can only image Bellegre soaked with her silk floating around her like some awful beautiful sea monster from stories that a girl called Arya Horseface would have known, someone called Old Nan would have told her of it.

Now as Mercy stands, she studies the courtesan below her. This is not a real competition, not in truth.

“If I do it…what do I get?”

“The feeling of doing something well.”

Mercy makes a face. What kind of a prize is that?

“Fine,’ Bellegre says with a sigh, studying Mercy, ‘Should you meet my challenge, then we will see the play by that troop of mummers.”

Mercy considers. It is a fair trade. She has not gone many places before entering the service of the Black Pearl. Once there was a little cat who wondered the canals knew all of the twists and turns of Braavos. The cat knew all of the merchants and all of the whores and all of the men who preformed by the docks. She even knew all of the animals like the seals who preformed and the cats who followed her through the city. None who knew the cat could know Mercy, so she had no one to visit and nowhere to go. She stayed in the villa with Bellegre or went to other villas with her when lovers called for her. A mummer show in the open air was a fine idea.

“What do I have to do?”

“Stand on one foot and recite a passage from _Heart of the Canal.”_ Bellegre says, holding the book out to her.

Mercy stares at her. It is an odd request.

“If you are not confident in your balance…” Bellegre trails off. She waves her hand as if allowing Mercy to sit again.

Mercy snatches the book from her. How hard could it be? A silly request, but one she could do. Mercy lifts one leg and the ghost of Arya Horseface whispers in her head about a man called Syrio Forrel of Braavos who would command her to do the same. She had to catch cats instead of words, though. When she finds her balance under her, trying to focus on allowing her body to stand stable against the gentle rocking of the boat. Her skirts, light as they are, make it harder and she adjusts them to be a bit higher, ignoring Bellegre’s raised brow. When Arya feels stable, she opens the book.

“Go to the tenth page. We’ll read from a poem from the second Poetess. She wrote it after a lover called her a _ver’unica puttana._ ”

“A what?” Arya asks. The words are familiar to her, but she is still working on her Braavosi.

“A unique whore. She was less than please and this was her response,’ Bellegere says motioning to her, ‘We’ll focus on the first half today. Read until there is that big space between the words.” Bellegre orders.

Mercy lets her leg down for a moment before picking it back up and starting to read.

“ _Such an attack is m-”_

“Stop,’ Bellegre demands and Mercy lets her leg drop, ‘You are saying the woods like you are hacking at them with an axe. Try again, make it softer.”

Mercy rolls her eyes and lifts her leg again, taking a moment to readjust her skirts again.

“ _Such an attack is more unexpected  
A-agani-”_

“Don’t stutter, it makes you sound unsure. Start again.”

“ _Such an attack is more unexpected  
Against us, women, who-”_

Mercy’s leg thuds down. The little boat rocks a bit forcefully.

“You read this as if you are telling me the weather. You have told me what we are having for dessert with more passion. Think on it. This man means to humiliate her with her comments. To put her in her place.”

Mercy considers it for a moment. She tries to picture a courtesan scorned. A woman who could write poetry and sing, who knew how to dress and say coy jokes and pretend to pay attention. A woman who was her own. Her had her own house and her own servants and her own mind. That man tried to take it from her, tried to ruin her. Mercy feels the heat of anger in her stomach, at the injustice of this man thinking calling her a simple whore was an insult.

He must not have known very good whores.

“ _The woman is important too!”_ the ghost of a girl called little sister whispers in her mind.

Mercy lifts her leg back up and starts again.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Arya is trying to recite was written by Veronica Franco, a famous Italian Courtesan.


End file.
